Life Review: “Are you a writer?”

“Are you a writer?”

That’s what he asked me. Four words.

I walked away as soon as he’d finished saying the fourth word.

I was shook. Wrecked. Shredded. I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. You don’t yet know why that question was so earth shattering to me, but you will. 

Keep reading.

I know it sounds a bit dramatic – and maybe even a little performative – but I swear, I was gobsmacked and had to walk away when the pastor asked that question. I walked away because his question represented a definitive assembling of puzzle pieces that, if not for my fear and stiff-necked refusal, could likely have taken shape, answered questions and solved issues years ago. 

Earlier this morning, I was listening to a message by a stellar voice in the faith space and, at around the 51:35 mark, the stellar voice said, “The prophetic word over your life should just give you the unction… the umph… to just go see. Why don’t you just go see what happens if you obey God? Why don’t you just go see what happens if you believe God? You already found out what happens when you believe the devil. You already know what it feels like to quit. Why not find out what it feels like to keep going?”

I paused the video and was instantly reminded of what I now understand to be a prophetic word that’s been intermittently spoken over me since seventh grade: 

“Write.”

I heard my seventh grade English teacher say “Keep writing” after I read aloud my paper on why pizza is the perfect food. I heard my mom say “Honey, gymnastics isn’t your only gift… you should write,” when I begrudgingly let her read anything I wrote. I heard the ex-boyfriend in my early 20s when he said, “You can write. It’s a real thing. You have talent.” 

I heard the accomplished actor I knew during my L.A. years say on a voicemail at 2am, “People ask me to read their written work all the time, and most of it is horrible. But, you… you can write. You need to write, Dione. Every day. Write.” I heard my writing mentors challenge me to stretch my range, to write in and out of my comfort zone and to happily receive merciless critique. 

In recent years, months, weeks and days, I’ve heard my best friend since tenth grade and two other dear friends echo the same directive: “Write. Just write.”

So, when I heard the aforementioned stellar voice say “Why don’t you just go see what happens if you obey God?” when I was already 20 minutes late for church, I took screenshots of two texts from friends who were prompted to nudge me about writing not long after I was laid off in January. I wanted screenshots of those two texts at the top of my photo gallery. In addition to the “Write” texts from those two friends, I also took a photo of a journal cover that reads “Write.”

I was convicted about this thing. Clearly.

I took the screenshots and photo to remind myself that I had, in fact, been given a word about writing dating back to seventh grade. The word hasn’t changed. And, although I’m acting brand new about it, it’s not new. It’s the same word. Just as God told Jonah to “Go to Nineveh,” He likewise hasn’t changed His edict for me.  

He ain’t changing it.

So, today the flock leader at church – whom I’ve never met, and who doesn’t know me – asked the question. The question disallowed me wiggle room. The question provided me no escape. The question trapped me in truth.

The jig was all the way up.   

“Are you a writer?”

People have asked me that question before but, today, it hit different. I know that’s grammatically incorrect slang, but it just lands.

Since hearing the question, the way I move is different now. That’s not an embellishment. I’m permanently different. In a nanosecond, those four words ground my stubborn streak into a fine powder. It’s a wrap. My will, my way and my whatever else is officially rubbish. The whole self-love, self-care, self-worship thing is exposed. Self is what got me into every mess I’ve ever been in. Listening to self. Living for self. Thinking self can take better care of me than God can do it.

I’ve turned a corner.

So, today, June 25, 2023, is a big day for me. It’s bigger than the day (at age four) when I realized I wanted to be a gymnast. It’s bigger than the first time (at age 10) when I left home to train with an elite coach. It’s bigger than the first time (at age 12) when I made the USA National Team, and bigger than the first time (at age 13) when I was ranked number one in the country. It’s even bigger than when I first realized being a communications professional is not my identity, and that my professional wins are meaningless if someone else doesn’t win alongside me.

Today is the day that, for the first time while adulting, I agreed with God.

I know. It’s huge.

My agreement with God today has been years in the making. A couple decades, actually. The crescendo of my surrender today was the result of a word of knowledge – and subsequent prophecy – by the leader of what, after nearly six years of searching, I am very comfortable calling my church. Today was my fourth service. My first service, by the way, was Pentecost Sunday. During that first visit, the woman of that house did an impromptu altar call and ended up praying over me.

First of all, for me to even respond to the altar call (which was for deliverance; not salvation) was monumental. I attend church alone right now, and I already feel a kind of way about it. It’s uncomfortable. I don’t love it. I’ve attended church alone before, but not when I wasn’t either married or in a relationship. The fact that I was alone at church when I was in relationships is not lost on me, in case you’re wondering if I see that anvil dropped on my head. All of that said, this church – and, in particular, its leadership – has made an unforgettable impression on me since I first walked in the door just a few Sundays ago.

The Surrender

When I went down for today’s altar call which, again, is not regular for me, I didn’t really know why I’d responded. I heard the prompt, said to myself, “Go” and walked down. I had a hunch I’d be missing something if I didn’t go. Once down there and after several minutes of closed-eyed prayer, I opened them and saw what looked to be unusual activity to my right, but I couldn’t make out what was happening. I finally realized the leader of the flock was making his way through the altar space and laying hands on people. People were falling out. 

Yeah, I don’t do that. 

I never have. Frankly, I’ve always considered it a bit of theater when I’d seen people do it and, as a recovering Episcopalian, I was always taught to believe “It don’t take all that.” So, when the leader of the flock walked over to me, another man (apparently called a “catcher”) stood behind me and the apostle put his hand on my forehead. When he did, out of sheer respect, I very consciously and deliberately allowed myself to go to the ground. It was kind of like doing that trust exercise at corporate team-building retreats. You know the one where one team member stands behind another blindfolded team member, and they have to catch the person trusting them to be caught? That. 

But, somehow, I knew when the catcher placed me ever so gently on the ground, that pride was at the root of my reluctance to go down to the floor in the past. This past includes the most recent time when the flock leader’s wife laid hands on me during my first visit. I didn’t allow myself to fall to the ground then because (ugly truth alert) I was worried about how it would look. I’d been letting pride, looking good and avoiding looking bad to make me dishonor people of God, and to block whatever God was wanting to minister.

Dumb. But, we don’t know what we don’t know until we know it, yes?

After getting up off the floor, something kept me at the altar. (Shout-out to the catchers who helped me up, too. I was wearing a dress and wedges… awkward.) I typically would’ve gone back to my seat, but I couldn’t leave. Again, I didn’t know why, but I just knew I needed to stay put. God wasn’t done dealing with me down there in that place of humility. 

In that place of surrender. 

In that place of honesty.

In that place of progress.   

So, I stayed. I closed my eyes again. I prayed again. After what seemed like 15 minutes, I sensed commotion again. I opened my eyes and saw the apostle. He was walking toward me a second time. I immediately looked down to honor the man of God. It didn’t seem possible that he was walking toward me for the second time in one altar call. Why? He’d already laid hands on me. I’d already curtseyed myself down to the ground. What else was there to do?

His approach was measured; methodical. There was another woman standing next to me, so I thought perhaps he was going to minister to her. Nope. He was headed my way. Right about the time I put my head down, he stood directly in front of me and said it.

“Are you a writer?”

#rekt

Super Specific Prophecy

After he said it and I’d walked away to collect myself, he realized from my doing-the-most reaction that he’d asked exactly the right question at exactly the right time. But, something else happened. When I walked away from him, he waited for me to come back. 

He. Waited. For. Me. To. Come. Back.

Again, I don’t know this person, and he doesn’t know me.

And yet, after he asked me the question and I walked away (which he could’ve interpreted any number of ways), he stood where he was and patiently waited until I was ready to be in his presence again.

Who does that sound like?

It sounds just like God to me. That’s how He rolls. He never leaves. He lets us have our little fits, go wayward, run away and resist Him. But, He stays put. He stays steady. He stays sturdy. He stays faithful; even when we’re not.

And no, I’m not calling the flock leader God. It’s a parallel. Relax. Don’t @ me.

When I walked back toward him, my head was involuntarily nodding in simultaneous agreement, and as an answer to his question. I just kept nodding my head. And shaking. I couldn’t believe that, after the beckoning drumbeat and flashing arrows (including all the things that had already happened this morning) pointing toward my act of obedience to write since the day after I was laid off, that this man’s – this stranger’s – first words to me were asking if I was a writer. 

Y’all.

If you’re counting, that’s five confirmations within a two-hour span. 

My head was about to roll off my neck. The nodding. The confirming. I needed him to know he’d freaking nailed it.

Then, he lowered the boom.

He said, “It won’t be rejected this time. Write it. It will be received this time. And, don’t wait until it’s published to call yourself an author. I break the spirit of rejection…”

He said something else after that, but I was gone. I didn’t hear it. He put his hand on my forehead, and down I went. Again. I graduated from never going down when someone laid hands on me to having a two-fer. I hit a double with the bases loaded. I scored two touchdowns. I stuck two landings. 

I don’t remember him walking away or anything that happened when I found myself on the ground the second time. There was a catcher. I don’t recall feeling myself being caught or led to the floor. A black cloth was placed over my legs. I don’t remember that, either. All I know is I kept saying, out loud, “What just happened? God… what. just. happened? How did he know to ask that question?” My hands shook for a good while.

I was undone. 

Thank God for His divine undoings. Thank God for the Holy Spirit-led apostle’s boldness. Thank God for His speed-dialed word of knowledge. The accuracy… stunning.

After church, I went home, changed clothes and headed to a coffee shop to write. I wrote this blog post. The first review of my own life in this blog was going to be on a different topic but, after today’s experience, this had to be the inaugural Life Review. Obviously.  

The concluding takeaway is this: writing is more than my gift; it’s my assignment. It’s weighty. It’s rife with responsibility. I don’t know to what end the assignment exists. I just know I’m supposed to launch this blog, and I’m supposed to keep writing, independent of my future employment’s writing requirements. The rest of it really isn’t any of my business unless and until it’s revealed. 

I don’t care if what I write never catches the eye of a decision-maker who can connect me to a book deal with a traditional publisher. I’ll take it if it happens, but that’s not my ‘why.’ I don’t care if it never evolves into an in-demand podcast or entry into the speaking circuit. I don’t care if it never catapults me into Blue Checkmarkville. I don’t care if my written words only positively affect one person. My being lost in obedience to Him is worth that one person’s positive outcome. The truth is, if I am willing and obedient, the best is already mine. It’s possible to be willing without being obedient. It’s also possible to be obedient without being willing.

I’m willing. I’m obeying.

So, from now on, when I am asked what I do, I will respond in lockstep with the prophetic word spoken over me for years, and with what was confirmed without a scintilla of doubt today: 

I’m a writer.